Training Day: Hood Vision Board
The Jury “Fellas. Fellas.” Duzza mentioned warmly while slapping hands with each of his comrades, whom had emptied out the running Black & Red Yukon near the gaping maw of the underground garage. “What it do?”

“It’s all good, man.” Statuz Quo replied. “How’s the leg?”

“It’s nothing.” The manager mentioned while wheeling himself about to head toward the nearest arena entrance into the building’s interior. The camera followed the unruly band down the hallway. Gear slung over their respective shoulders, every member of Trouble are dressed in street attire. Some patrons warranted a respectful head nod. Others promoted an exchange of prolonged exchange of scowls or extended middle fingers.

“Yo Duzza.” Khadafi bellowed. “We’re heading the wrong way.”

“Yeah, man.” Dallas responded in kind. “The locker room is down the other hall.”

“Don’t worry about all of that.” Duzza replied as he wheeled the chair around the corner. “Just follow me.”

The Jury & Dallas Griffin exchanged looks of notable confusion & concern yet continued onward. The camera panned back to follow the band of thugs making their way into the heart of the emptied Arena of Champions. The ground floor of the arena offered a captivating view of its lavished interior. The ring crews were in the midst of their final inspections as the staging crew were busy fastening the track lighting or loading the armored trucks with the appropriate props. Duzza raised his hand, signaling for Dallas to stop pushing the wheelchair forward. The Jury were noticeably lost into the vastness of the amphitheater and the aura of wrestling’s past, present & future. The faint echoes teased the ears with epic moments of promotional lore. The reminder of the crew took a seat within proximity.

“Brothers.” Duzza spoke while folding his arms over each other along each arm rest. “Took a real good look around. Take it all in and tell me what do each of ya’ll see?”

“A tight set up with the entrance.” Statuz Quo replied. “A big ass bank vault. That’s hot.”

Duzza inhaled briefly before exhaling. “Anybody else?”

“I can hear the crowd.” Dallas mentioned while training his eyes toward the rafters. “In my mind, I can really hear them. I think about how nervous I get sometimes coming out here.”

Duzza rubbed his nose with his thumb & forefinger before looking out into the western section of the arena. “Khadafi?”

“.....”

The Hawaiian Holocaust looked troubled. His eyes drew shut for a few moments before running his hand across his scalp, peeling the Crimson bandana from his brow and balling it up into his fist. Duzza slowly wheeled the chair around to notice Khadafi looking away into the distance. The manager took a casual look at every one of them before looking at the rafters.

“That’s it?” Duzza mentioned while looking at Khadafi briefly. “Nothing?”

Khadafi’s right hand was seen running over the lower half of his face in muffled frustration. A subtle snort prompted Duzza to look at the rest of his crew.

“You boys paint a solid picture.” Duzza mentioned. “I see that and that’s what’s up. In this business, you need to set something ahead of you. A goal. A vision. A dream. You all remember when we were little?”

A parade of faint smiles grew in reminiscing into the day’s of adolescent ambitions. Every eye shut briefly to bask in the radiance of their childhood.

“Every scraped knee. Unexplainable situations with fucked up furniture.” Duzza mentioned to the chorus of gentle amusement. “I know we all got our asses whooped on more than one occasion in doing what we loved to do. We would throw our little fists up into the air and felt like nothing could stop us. Talk shit. Those were the days, right?”

The gang nodded in kind. Statuz Quo looked toward the ring crew how were ordering the teams to huddle up for further instructions as Dallas was seen leaning back, draping his arms along the backs of the chairs nearby. Khadafi hunched forward, raising his head slightly before popping the bones in his neck.

“Fellas, I’m gonna tell you what I see right now.” Duzza mentioned while smoothing out his bottom lip with his thumb & forefinger. “I see a broken team. An unfocused crew. I know we had to fall back as we were told by JCON and had to see his championship chances evaporate. Just like that.” The manager mentioned while snapping his finger. “It’s fucked up. Real fucked up that we couldn’t help the homie. We were just trying to do the right thing but we have to face facts, we are almost as fucked up as The Backbone.”

The gang’s faces quickly soured, prompting them to look elsewhere. Anywhere but forward.

“The only difference is that we still have a core unit. It needs work. A whole lot of fucking work but nothing too demanding.” Duzza continued. “I got a team of brawlers. Some of the rawest muthafuckas who can really put some heads out. Real G’s with the potential that is straight up unreal yet for my team to reach that next level, some shit has really got to change. I am not even going to even bullshit any of ya’ll on that.”

Statuz Quo breathed a heavy sigh while rubbing his index finger across his left eyebrow as Khadafi rubbed his head quietly in frustration with both hands. Dallas rested his lips against his cupped hands while resting his elbows against his knees.

“Now, I got a unpolished big man. Greener than asparagus with more attitude & emotion than fucking brains. He is easily a strong contender for the Underground title. Even the World title whenever he wants to pry his head out from his ashy ass.”

Duzza monitored the assorted emotions radiating from his crew in the presence of unedited truth.

“None of my guys are in contention for shit. Nothing and I could give a fuck about what the others think about us as ya’ll should know; we ain’t in this business to be liked. We are not here to make friends. That ain’t us. Never has been.” Duzza mentioned before removing his shades & rubbing his head. “Not one of you. Not one is even on the pay-per-view card tonight. Not even the fucking opener. Not even on the preview show. I don’t know about ya’ll but to me, that’s gotta hurt. That’s fucking embarrassing.”

The faces of the gang were downcast. Khadafi began rubbing his lowered forehead with his index finger.

“But I don’t bring ya’ll out here to shit on ya’ll..” Duzza mentioned. “I brought you all here to take a hard look in the fucking mirror. You know I get the jewels. The cars. The clothes. The bitches. I feel ya’ll on all of that but you got to ask yourselves somethings.” Duzza conveyed. “Are any of you proud of where you are? Is everything you done to get here ‘good enough’ when it’s all said & done?”

Silence. Dallas trained his eyes on the members of the staging teams ear hustling in which they immediately returned themselves back to work. Griffin’s jaw shifted amidst a frustrated sigh.

“What are ya’ll willing to do to have your faces put back up there?” Duzza mentioned while directing the crew’s attention toward the suspended banners behind them.

Snapshots of The House, holding the jOlt Tag Team titles. The Heirs of Wrestling holding court on the other side of the white divider. The opposing tandem of Sylo & Ninja K poised to deliver respective death blows onto their opposition. The grand banner with all the opposition contending against Derecho, set in the background, enlarged with the jolt Heavyweight title slung over his shoulder.

“It’s obvious that you all came here when I called because this shit had to linger in your minds.” The manager mentioned. “You tried using every vice to drown out this shit yet nothing seems to work. Am I right?”

The gang said nothing but their body language betrayed them.

“Ya’ll here to find some answers and yeah; Pride tells you to be quite. Not to say what we already know needs to be said. It’s alright. I understand that but it’s written all over your faces. All of this potential and you have to ask yourselves & each other ‘What in the fuck are we going to do about it?” Duzza continued while wheeling himself closer to his crew.

“Now I am not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. I promise. You got my word on that.” Duzza mentioned while exposing his palms. “But if this position is cool with you, that’s your right. It’s your business but I personally nor professionally, can’t fuck with you. Period point blank.” Duzza mentioned. “I won’t. I don’t fuck with losers and I get the possibility of any of ya’ll taking a loss. Even a losing streak. Just like right now. Shit happens but once you show me you are cool with begin a fucking failure, I am going to tell you straight up to your face ‘Fuck you and get the fuck out of my face.”

All eyes of the crew were attentive yet silent.

“I will flat out tell you to ‘go kill your mother fucking self’. I won’t lend a hand. Call in a favor. You’re on your motherfuckin’ own.” Duzza mentioned. “So I’m going to ask ya’ll one time and one time only.

“What’s it going to be, fellas?”